Alleviation
by Orcrist's Mate
Summary: They are all broken. ::Post Mockingjay, KatnissPeeta, one sided HaymitchPeeta::


**Title**: Alleviation**  
Summary**: It's quiet out here, on the edge of District 12, with enough room for their demons. They like it that way. [Post Mockingjay, KatnissPeeta, one sided HaymitchPeeta] **  
Disclaimer**: This fantastic series belongs completely to Suzanne Collins.  
**  
Author's Note**: Small tribute to what I thought was a great end to the series. Hope you enjoy :)

* * *

**Alleviation**

They are all broken. Beyond repair, Haymitch sometimes thinks, like dolls with their limbs askew, eyes glassed over, stuffing trailing from the burst seams of their skin. But like abandoned toys, they are rarely bothered by the outside world. The war is done, and there are no places in this new nation for two beautifully broken children. There is nowhere for him, either, an old man with no family, no friends. A past drowned in blood, a future reeking of alcohol. He doesn't blame the rest of Panem for this. Everyone looks forward now, and under collective agreement the Hunger Games are quietly put to the side, relics of a time that no one wishes to remember. Modest memorials are built on the sites of the old arenas. Once a year there is a national holiday – Mockingjay Day, where children like to dress up as birds, although the meaning of it is already beginning to wash out, wear through. And the victors, the survivors, so faded it seems you can see right through their bones, are lost in the riptides of the new order.

It's probably for the best. The image of the Mockingjay is one of defiance in the face of tyranny – who wants it spoiled by the vacant look in Katniss's eyes, the days when she wakes up and does nothing but stare out the window, or carefully cut the thorns off the primrose bushes beside their house, over and over and over until her hands glisten with blood? Who wants to see the gentle eyes of Peeta, symbolic of the overcoming power of love, turn clouded and violent when something rewires in his mind and all the hatred of President Snow and his torture sparks out of his limbs? There are good days, of course. Days when Haymitch will sit on his porch and watch them holding hands, or Peeta painting a bird, or Katniss working on their book with a wistful smile. Sometimes the three of them make dinner together, hands put to something other than war. Peeta pulls radiant loaves out of the oven, telling quiet jokes to make Katniss laugh, while Haymitch roughly chops vegetables – the white liquor has shot the nerves in his hands to hell, and he has trouble keeping them still – and the Mockingjay herself prepares whatever she has caught for them that evening, gray eyes turned up at the corners in a quiet display of peace.

Other days are like reliving the revolution. Sometimes he walks into their living room to see Peeta systematically throwing their dishes at the wall. The bursts look like ceramic flowers for a second, unfurling and drooping in gravity's vice before they splinter against the floor. Occasionally the boy screams things, directed at him or Katniss or an unknown multitude that seem to watch him from the shadows - "you _monsters_!", or "nothing but a fucking _mutt_!" or "get out of my head, you don't belong don't belong _don'tbelong_!". Katniss watches him with clenched fists, unwilling or unable to leave as he destroys their entire collection and eventually sinks, quivering, to the ground. Sometimes she'll disappear into the woods for days at a time, and Haymitch will open his door to an aimless and lonely Peeta, who then paints furiously – vast murals dark with blood – eyes flickering to the window every few seconds. When she reappears, they always wrap themselves in each other, ebony and gold twined in a weary embrace Haymitch is quietly but firmly locked out of. He does not even think about how he must appear to them – thin, hollow, ragged around the edges like a kite that just won't fly anymore. He simply kneels and picks up the shattered pottery from the floor so Katniss doesn't cut her hands again, sits Peeta down and gives him a drink so he'll stop worrying. Damage control. He lets them think that he's been ordered to do this by the new president, but in reality he volunteered for the job. It's almost funny, because the world that he fought so hard to create holds no interest for him now – all of Panem might as well be a wasteland, but for these two children who seem to glow when he looks at them, although he would rather go completely sober than tell them that. But perhaps they know, because Katniss still comes and helps him into bed when he's so drunk that the world is reduced to a pulsing roar of shadowy light, and Peeta still washes the vomit out of his hair, stroking it back gently as Haymitch retches and shudders under the weight of his memories. It's quiet out here, on the edge of the fledgling District 12, with enough room for them and their demons, and they like it that way.

_aaa_

Suicide sounds cliché and cowardly, but he knows that all of them consider it sometimes. The desire fades as the years begin to pass, but there are days, early on, when he sees Katniss freeze as she stares down at her hunting knife, fingers running sensually over the edge of the blade, then press her palm and wrist hard against it as she watches her skin bend in an attempt not to break. Her arms are still blotchy with scars where they had to graft on new skin from the burns.

The third time she does this, Haymitch leans against the counter and laughs, deliberately mocking her.

"Tempting, right, sweetheart?" he asks, and her eyes snap, electric, to his. "But if I can go this long without doing it, you can." The challenge is clear, and her mouth twists into a hard line.

"I would never do that to Peeta. Or my mother," she snaps at him, and he sees some of the fire he was beginning to think might have been forever doused.

"Oh, I don't think so," he says, provoking her further. "You were certainly ready after you killed Coin." He smiles, truth sharpening his smile into cruelty. "You and I are selfish creatures, Katniss, and always have been. We don't care who we hurt."

With an angry hiss, Katniss stabs the knife point down into the wooden cutting board, where it quivers as she storms out of the room. She refuses to speak to him for a month after that, but when he is finally allowed back into their house he sees that the knife is handled quickly, cleanly. Peeta never knows what their argument was about.

Peeta, now. Peeta, he has yet to see showing signs of wanting to give up, but when the dead reach out and caress your face in the twilight of your dreams, who does not think about joining them? Haymitch certainly does, sometimes wakes up and imagines the bitter taste of nightlock on his tongue, but in the end prefers the the blurred carnival of lights that alcohol offers instead. Dying does not scare him, but even so, he has chosen a slower method to reach the final destination than morphling or the sharp glint of a knife, because who knows what comes after that? He can't decide if it oblivion would be better, or have to answer for all the people he has failed.

The fact that the boy does not seem to consider it, though, soothes something deep within him.

_aaa_

Screaming matches between the old man and the Mockingjay are less common now than they were at first. The fundamental problem is that Haymitch and Katniss are far too similar. They both know this, and hate each other for it. She hates him for the traces of herself she sees in his barbed comments, in the way he steadily drinks until the world drips down over his eyes, the way he manipulated them during the war, which she will never forgive and yet did to countless other people. He hates her for her apathy, the way that for years after the war she still pushes the people who love her away, while he has _nothing_, hates her for the way she refuses to participate in the recreation of Panem, hates her for being young and bitter with a full life ahead of her despite the fact that she lost only a fraction of what he did. Mostly, they hate each other because they hate themselves, and looking at each other is too much like a reflection. At the same time, they look after each other, roughly supporting their doppelganger in a way that Peeta is too gentle to do. One might loathe a sibling, but one is always there for them, and that is the rule under which they operate.

It's different for Haymitch and Peeta. Peeta has fully forgiven him for everything – choosing Katniss during the first Hunger Games, abandoning him again in the second, siding with Katniss about the final Game (which never came to pass, much to Haymitch's unexpected relief. Paylor put her foot down on the plan immediately, and the screams of dying Capitol children no longer haunt his bones). One night when Haymitch is spectacularly drunk he slurs out an apology to the boy, tongue tripping over itself as he tries to explain that the feeling of desolation when he had realized that it was Katniss or him, and the revolution could not survive without Katniss. He later thinks he must have imagined the scene in his stupor, but a week later as he is watching Peeta paint – Finnick this time, handsome smile glowing – the boy speaks without looking up.

"You know, there was never anything to forgive you for, Haymitch. We all did terrible things during the war. Yours were no worse than mine."

This is a lie, of course. Peeta was the victim of torture and brainwashing, lashing out only because he had no choice, while Haymitch betrayed him in cold blood. But Peeta is kind, and perhaps the least broken of them all, although Haymitch knows that's not true as soon as he thinks it. Peeta has lost his family, and the foundations of his sanity, something that the ordinary take for granted, and in truth the only thing about himself Haymitch is sure of. The blond boy is just as damaged as he is, but that does not stop the simple, gentle kindness of his soul. Of all of them, he deserves this ghostly, forgotten existence the least, although he knows the boy does not see it that way. He has Katniss, and to him it is the greatest wonder in the world.

And this, finally, _this_ is the final reason Haymitch hates Katniss, for no other reason than being the one Peeta has chosen. He knows that he never had a chance, that it is stupid and useless to love a boy twenty-five years his junior, that while the girl could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve him, Haymitch could live a million and be in worse shape than her... but still. Still. It does not stop him from hoarding his moments and memories of Peeta with an avarice deep enough to rival the old Capitol's gluttony, does not stop him from watching wistfully from afar. He learns to appreciate the soft locks of hair that fall into Peeta's eyes when he paints, the tender way his entire body radiates as he kisses Katniss's forehead, the way he talks quietly to the documentary crews that beg for interviews, reminding the world that the past cannot be forgotten or repeated, the sensitive touch of his hands, everything. Everything the boy does is all the sweeter for the fact that Haymitch can not have him.

To his surprise, his love remains strangely chaste. The most he ever dreams of is Peeta curled into his arms, of threading the spun gold of his hair through his fingers. It seems wrong, obscene even, to stain this vision with lust. Haymitch is no stranger to sex, in both the dark alleyways of the Seam and the sparkling palaces of the Capitol, men and women alike – whoever would have him, brokenly attractive as he had been once. But it, as well as most other pleasures, has been pushed aside in the favor of alcohol, and he does not regret his choice.

Well, most of the time. There are occasional mornings when he will wake up on his kitchen floor, too hungover to do anything but stare at the flaking pieces of plaster on the ceiling, and hear the faint sound of Katniss singing. It's always beautiful, and Haymitch thinks to himself, _I could join them. I could be part of that. _But that would involve both getting up – an impossible task in any case – and subjecting himself once again to the exquisite torture of Katniss reflected in Peeta's eyes, made soft and beautiful by the healing light of adoration. And while Haymitch has always been good at masochism, even he has his limits.

_aaa_

The book takes years for them to finish. They all sit on the porch, listening to the summer wind, untouched cups of white liquor rippling each time one of them moves.

"That's everyone I remember," Peeta says eventually, fingers trailing over each page as he turns it.

"But not everyone there was. It doesn't seem like enough." Katniss is angry – Haymitch can see it in the tight fold of her mouth. He understands why, though. The book is nearly finished, and after it is done, what can they do to keep the ghosts at bay?

But maybe that's not the point. "Three more," he says, surprised at the words springing from him lips.

"Hm?" Peeta looks up, but for once Haymitch does not see him – he is lost in the dark alleyways of the past, familiar faces blurring by him.

"Three more," he says again, and Katniss's eyes grow dark with understanding.

"Yes." She shares a look with Peeta, who suddenly flushes and looks down.

"Of course," he says, offering hesitantly, "Haymitch... I'll paint them for you, if you want."

They have obviously spoken of this before, but Haymitch feels none of the violation he might have. Instead, a dull energy he has not felt for years begins to thread through his veins.

"I'd like that."

_aaa_

"Her eyes were bluer than that. Like yours," Haymitch tells Peeta. "And happy. Ana was always happy."

Peeta nods and narrows his eyes in concentration, adding a light flick to her eyes, a slight rouge to her cheeks that gives her the air of joy. Haymitch exhales heavily and looks away. They have already finished his mother and brother, Luca. They are not perfect – even though he forced himself to remember every detail and curve of their faces every night, the moment had come years ago when he could no longer recall them clearly. Ana's laughter has disappeared years ago, Luca's stupid rhymes have been lost to the tides of memory, and the smell of his mother is nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction when he passes a certain sort of perfume.

Peeta is speaking to him from far away, and Haymitch drags himself back into the present. "What happened?" The question is soft and demure, not pressing.

Haymitch shrugs, a choppy movement that makes his back twinge painfully. "My mother was claimed to have stolen medical supplies, and my brother was convicted of assisting. They were shot while I was being interviewed two buildings away." He chews on the inside of his lip, teeth scraping over the years of scarred flesh that has built up from decades of contemplating his family.

"And Ana?" Peeta whispers. He looks horrified, and Haymitch wonders how that's even possible after all the boy has been through.

"Accused of sedition and executed two days later. Without trial, of course." Haymitch examines a woodgrain in the floorboards. "No funerals are allowed for traitors or thieves against the Capitol. I stole the bodies from the incinerator and buried them myself out in the woods. Took me two days, and I was beaten when they found out." He keeps his voice tightly controlled, and allows himself a small smile. "But I won. They never found the graves."

He hears a choking sound, and looks up. Peeta is crying for him now, openly, worlds of grief contained in the tiny drops as they splash against the canvas, and the surprise is so great that Haymitch nearly tells him, then. _I loved her the way I love you._ _The way I will always love you._

He opens his mouth, and a breeze from the window caresses him with the delicate scent of evening primrose. _Katniss. _Haymitch closes his mouth. He will only lose both of them if he continues. And they deserve to be happy, or get whatever measure of happiness they could wring from the wreck of their souls.

Instead, he waits for Peeta's weeping to stop. When the boy brushes at his eyes and looks back up, Haymitch tells him, "It's time to move forward, now."

_aaa_

"This is it," Peeta says unnecessarily as they all stare at the book.

Katniss silently offers him the brush to seal the final page – his younger brother's. Haymitch takes it in his damaged fingers, and shakily brushes a layer over the young boy's face. The light glistens over his Seam eyes, making them alive for a frozen moment, and the sound of Luca's laughter is so real that he could be standing across the table.

Haymitch doesn't even realize he's crying until he tastes salt in the corners of his mouth. The paintbrush falters and stops, and he bows his head, presses a hand over his mouth to stop the strangled sounds that are leaking out, betraying him.

"Haymitch?" Someone asks behind him, and he doesn't answer. His hands are shaking so badly that he can't hold the paintbrush in a straight line, and it tumbles to the floor, the clatter echoing in his ears like the buzz of the forcefield as his opponent bled out before his eyes, like Maysilee's last choked words, like his brother sharpening his knife, like his mother getting out the family lute, like Ana's feet skipping across the floor, like the sound of bullet casings falling to the ground as they all keeled over, blood pooling out from their bodies in oceans, his dreams telling him that it's _all his fault_...

Then the wood is being pressed back between his fingers, and two hands are holding the brush between his limp fingers, dipping it back into the water, making slow strokes over the page, preserving his brother in history. Katniss and Peeta's fingers feel alien on his skin – cool and young and confident, until a reaction is coaxed out of him and he feels his fingers tightening on it despite himself.

Then the page is finished, and he is still crying, and Katniss has let go and is crouched in front of him, a rare expression on her face.

"It's okay. It's finished," she says. The sound of gunshots has faded away from his mind, replaced by the rustle of grass and rose petals on the lawn.

Haymitch closes his eyes and feels the sunshine on his face, the sting of his tears, Katniss's sympathetic gaze, Peeta's soft hand still covering his own, and wonders if this is family, or love, or happiness, or despair. Either way, he will get drunk later, and Katniss will help him into bed, and Peeta will wash his hair, and he will come over next week when one of them falls apart again, and help them stick themselves back together again. So it goes. They probably won't ever be truly fixed. Maybe not even partially.

But he allows himself to believe that peace, of a sort, will come anyways.


End file.
